


synthetic romance

by orphan_account



Category: VIXX
Genre: Alternate Universe - Future, Domestic Violence, M/M, Street fighting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-12
Updated: 2015-09-12
Packaged: 2018-04-20 08:57:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4781438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[the city] would swallow a person whole, but rather than spitting them out in pieces, it kept them locked inside until even their bones were soft with despair.</p>
            </blockquote>





	synthetic romance

**Author's Note:**

> [[playlist](http://8tracks.com/d3bonair/synthetic-romance)]! the domestic violence / abuse is very non descriptive, but it's there. this fic is set 80+ years in the future; ie. probably around the year 2095 (though the year is never actually said).

 

_if you loved someone, you loved him, and when you had nothing else to give him,_

_you still gave him love. - George Orwell, 1984_

__

_as we rise from the organic and sink back ignominiously into the organic, it is a glory_

_and a privilege to love what Death doesn't touch. – Donna Tartt, The Goldfinch_

 

 

01 It wasn’t the first time Taekwoon had seen him in the stairwell—track jacket the same faded pink as his hair—but it was the first time Taekwoon had ever seen him bloodied. He’d been bruised before: discolored patches above his brow bone, on his cheeks; faded marks along his neck like echoes of a night gone wrong, but tonight he was sat with his hand over his face, cradling his nose that bled onto his lip, into his mouth.

Taekwoon was standing, rather awkwardly, a few steps down from where Hongbin sat—and he knew Hongbin’s name only because it’d been thrown around so loudly from the apartment next door, where Hongbin and his boyfriend fought for an hour at a time, sometimes two. Taekwoon had a cigarette in his mouth, plumes of smoke like clouds resting above his head; the air was thick, warm.

‘I’m fine,’ Hongbin told him, voice deepened by blocked sinuses. He wouldn’t look Taekwoon in the eye—not that he ever did.

He’d have left it at that had he not seen the amount of blood on Hongbin’s sleeve, pink dyed a murky purple and his fingers: covered in it. ‘Pinch your nose,’ Taekwoon said. ‘Right here—’ and demonstrated on his own face. 'The bleeding will stop then.’

Hongbin simply looked at him, and already: darkened circles beneath both his eyes. Taekwoon wondered if he’d been punched, then thought about the boy that lived with him. He wasn’t big, not even scary, but Hongbin was gentle, didn’t even slam the door on the few occasions Taekwoon had been in the hall after Hongbin left a fight; and even now, sat with a jacket falling from his shoulders and hair in his eyes, he stared up at Taekwoon with a child-like innocence that made Taekwoon’s hands tremble. He felt a surge of anger plunge into his stomach, red hot and swarming.

A thousand words filled his mouth, but he said none of them, instead reached into his pocket and offered his cigarette pack with the top flipped open. Hongbin stared for a long moment, long enough that Taekwoon was going to apologize, but then he took one (Taekwoon noted the way his hands shook, how the blood had dried beneath his nails, coloring them an ugly brown).

'Thank you,’ Hongbin muttered.

Taekwoon leaned over with his lighter ignited and the flame unwavering in the stale apartment air. He lit Hongbin’s cigarette, spellbound by the glow of yellow flame across Hongbin’s nearly perfect face.

'Pinch your nose,’ Taekwoon told him again. 'Don’t put ice on it. It’ll swell.’

-

He left out the back entrance of the complex where the walkway was lined with vehicles. Cars without tires and broken shards of glass; a part of the neighborhood not many people walked down, and this was the reason Taekwoon liked it. Quiet, except for the blare of subway carts, loud on the overhead pass. Some nights he’d come out with a cigarette in his mouth and one behind his ear, watch the carts pass by only a few meters above his head; and the sound was ear-splitting but soothing in a way that industrial noise was: it blocked out all other sounds, filled the world with a metallic clatter so utterly solid one couldn’t deny reality, which Taekwoon often did.

He was two blocks from Raceway when Wonsik called, informed him it was a full house and he’d better hurry or they might not get to go a round; and Taekwoon, quickened pace, embers falling from his cigarette, found himself outside the club with a line breaching the building.

Jaehwan saw him before Taekwoon saw them; and hurrying to his side, he grabbed Taekwoon’s sleeve and said: 'Wonsik forgot his permit. Tell him he can’t fight without his permit.’

Taekwoon smirked, told Wonsik, 'You can’t fight without your permit.’

'With  _conviction_ ,’ Jaehwan whined.

'When was the last time there was a raid, anyway?’ Wonsik said. He was glaring at Jaehwan, forehead creased and a cigarette in his mouth. He took a drag, stomped it out. 'Hyung—’ turning to Taekwoon— 'when was the last time?’

'About three years ago.’

'About three  _years_  ago,’ Wonsik near shouted.

Jaehwan scoffed, slapped Wonsik’s hand away when he tried to touch him. 'They’ll do it tonight, just watch—you watch. Cops everywhere, carding everyone. Do you  _really_  wanna spend the night in jail? I can’t bail your ass out!’

'Too many people,’ Taekwoon muttered quietly. 'Cops won’t card everyone.’

’ _Besides_ ,’ Wonsik said, awfully close to Jaehwan’s face, 'do you think I’m the only person here without a permit on them?’

'He has a point,’ Taekwoon said.

'I have a point,’ Wonsik repeated.

And Jaehwan, clutching the hem of his shirt, rolled his eyes until only the whites showed; and he glared so hard at Taekwoon, Taekwoon almost laughed. He’d have probably said more had Wonsik not walked away, shouting over his shoulder: 'We’re up in ten minutes.’

Taekwoon hooked his arm over the back of Jaehwan’s neck, pulled him close. He spoke into his hair, said: 'Lighten up. Do you know how many times I’ve fought without my permit on me? You never knew.’

’Great to know, hyung.’

'Jaehwan-ah…’

'Go easy on him? Will you? Please.’

'People are betting on this fight,’ Taekwoon said quietly. 'I can’t do that.’ Then, when Jaehwan began to fidget: 'I won’t kill him. How about that? I promise not to kill him.’

He smiled at that; a victory in its own.

They shouldered past sweating bodies wearing bloody shirts; boys with broken noses, and mouths busted open. Taekwoon nodded to a few of them, ignored most of them; and shrugging out of his jacket, began to stretch all his limbs. Wonsik had his shirt off, but Taekwoon preferred to fight with his on; and standing across from one another with a growing crowd around them and the knowledge that Jaehwan, lost in the sea of faces, was probably biting his nails completely off; Taekwoon found himself smiling. Wonsik smiled back: a cunning curve of his mouth that made Taekwoon smirk.

Then: show time.

A fight could last anywhere between ten and twenty minutes, depending completely on the fighters. There were those who liked to fight until one was left unconscious; hard fighters who broke noses and cheek bones, used their teeth when their knuckles had collapsed into uselessness. But for Taekwoon—and Wonsik, on most occasions—it was simply enough for the other person to tap out. When a person yelled stop or rapped their knuckles—or palm, if knuckles had been broken—against the floor, the opponent had to first recognize, then respect this, or risk the chance of their permit being revoked.

Tonight: the fight was slow. Taekwoon, wary of Wonsik’s predicament, had meant what he said to Jaehwan. It’d be unfair to go easy simply because he’d left his permit at home, but he also knew if Wonsik was fatally harmed, or even hurt enough to need medical attention, not only would Wonsik be expected to pay the hospital bill but also banned from fighting for the next two years. It was called suspension, and Taekwoon had suffered through it once when he was eighteen; and it’d been the most boring two years of his life, watching fights he couldn’t be a part of. So he went easy, made sure when his fist made contact with Wonsik’s face, it wasn’t with the intent of breaking him, only harming him. But the two of them had been fighting for years, had been put up against each other enough times to predict their every move, and it took only one blow to Wonsik’s left eye for him to detect what Taekwoon was doing.

And the way he glared, kicked Taekwoon’s feet out from under him, had Taekwoon regretting every word he’d said to Jaehwan.

There was a dull throb above his left eye, and a sharp pain in his ribs; blood on his tongue—he’d bitten it when his head hit concrete; reflexes a little off, Taekwoon reached out, took Wonsik’s ankle and tore him to the ground, but it wasn’t a scuffle people were watching for, but a real fight. So: back on his feet before Wonsik hit the floor, Taekwoon grabbed the back of Wonsik’s neck, hauled him up; and somewhere—though far away, because when the lights were on and a fight in progress, everything fell away like a badly remembered dream—Taekwoon felt, rather than heard, the surge of the crowd, excitement washing over him utterly.

-

It ended with a spark of color, dizzying in its arrival; Taekwoon, staggering, unable to find his footing. Wonsik had elbowed him in the face, blood on his arm but not his own; and Taekwoon, falling, falling, reaching for something and feeling a hand touch his own, then feeling the wet, dirty pavement against his busted face.

-

His eyes were open but he couldn’t see—not really. A barrage of colors, blurred images; a room tipped on its side. He was in the bathroom, but he only knew this because it smelled strongly of piss and blood, and there were gentle, familiar hands on his face, cleaning his wounds; a mouth pressing a kiss to his cheek, his eye. Jaehwan: kissing away all the pain, doing what he did best. This was the reason why he tagged along in the first place. He liked putting the pieces back together.

'You fucked him up,’ Jaehwan said and he must have been talking to Wonsik. Suddenly: rough, calloused hands were touching Taekwoon’s face, and a nose was nuzzling into his jaw.

'Sorry, hyung,’ Wonsik said.

Taekwoon, punch drunk and half asleep. He slurred, 'You're— you’re apologizing?’ and trying to laugh, but wheezing instead. 'Bastard.’

'Are you gonna be okay?’ Jaehwan asked. 'Do you need to go to hospital?’

'No, I—’ Taekwoon leaned his head back to whatever wall he was pressed against and let Jaehwan caress his headache away.

He was at the bar when reality flooded back into him some time later; recognition and memory intact. There was an empty glass in his hand, and looking to Jaehwan who told him it’d been a J&B with soda, Taekwoon wasn’t sure if he’d drank it, so ordered another.

'Feel alright?’ Wonsik asked him. His right eye was swollen shut, bottom lip split in half with blood down to his chin. It looked like he’d tried to clean his face, but stopped midway; probably the pain of touching fresh wounds had been too much.

'Fine,’ Taekwoon replied, though he felt anything but; and when Wonsik grabbed the back of Taekwoon’s neck, he sank forward into the curve of Wonsik’s side, head rested on his shoulder.

A holographic calendar was open on the bar top: Jaehwan flipping through his agenda. He said, 'I signed you two up for the first Friday of next month. Figured you’d be healed by then.’

'How much did we make?’ Wonsik asked. He laid his cheek atop Taekwoon’s head.

'Uh—’ Jaehwan flashed a wad of bills thick as his wrist— 'enough for rent. I think? Did you need any, hyung?’

'No.’

'Go put it on the account,’ Wonsik said, and took from his pocket a metallic, chrome colored card with the name of their apartment complex written across the front. 'Before we forget.’ And after Jaehwan had left, he asked Taekwoon: 'Are you sure you don’t need any? We made quite a bit tonight.’

But Taekwoon shook his head, buried his face deeper into Wonsik’s neck.

-

Out on the streets some hours later, dawn threatening the western sky, Taekwoon let Jaehwan kiss him goodbye, and waited until Wonsik had hailed a cab and crawled in the back seat with Jaehwan’s hand in his own. Then: stumbling back to his own apartment a few blocks south, Taekwoon walked with his head down, his hands in his pockets.

The building looked different in the daylight however weak the sun’s light was. Aged concrete, discolored with cracks like vines running up the sides; some windows: broken, others: open, and the sounds of the passing subway harsh and headache inducing. Taekwoon wouldn’t sleep for another four hours for fear of concussions and other head traumas, and so sat himself in front of the television, selected full screen and watched as the images bled in holographic phosphorescence onto the white wall—the same wall that connected his and Hongbin’s apartments.

02 His face had healed considerably by the next week; bruises faded to a deep brown. They hardly hurt when he touched them, but as Taekwoon wandered from street corner into the artificial dark of club Domino, he was aware of how many eyes settled on him.

Daydreaming by the check-in booth; Taekwoon, with his hands so far in his pockets the waist of his jeans slipped low on his hips. He tried to concentrate on a broken bulb in some inane light fixture that was supposed to be a flower of sorts but really was indecipherable; it reminded Taekwoon of something he’d choked up once after a fight: red, ugly. He stared at his feet.

There was a baby-faced boy of about seventeen, maybe sixteen, behind the front counter, and he had a charming smile, bright eyes. He asked Taekwoon if he’d like to see a menu.

'No, that’s alright.’ In all the years Taekwoon had been coming here, he’d never once bought a booth, or a boy. Strictly business was how he’d thought of it. After all, he wouldn’t be here in the first place if Wonsik wasn’t working late at the gallery.

'I’m here for Jaehwan,’ he said.

The boy’s face fell. 'You want to request him? I think his shift is over soon.’

'I’m his, uh, his ride home? I’m just— I don’t need services.’ His face was hot, and his blood cold; based on the way the boy smiled—genuine, endeared—he must have looked really stupid.

'oh—’ and his demeanor changed. 'Go ahead and get him.’ No longer having to wear the facade of a Lolita, the boy reached over and pinned a blue band around Taekwoon’s wrist; and it was surprising how heavy his hands were. He urged Taekwoon past the red ropes, through the dark room, and told him: better to keep your eyes down if you aren’t here for anything extra. But this was something Taekwoon already knew.

Glass-plate rooms lined either side of the club; tall windows opening up on small, intimate rooms. There were beds in these rooms, light fixtures and holographic art; some came with televisions, others with radios; some were themed, but all were sound-proof. Jaehwan called them the fuck-me rooms; places the patrons could take their dancer of choice, do whatever they wanted with them. But tonight, most of the rooms were empty (a normalcy for a Tuesday); come Saturday and every room would be occupied, because on the weekends club Domino doubled as a cat-house.

Taekwoon found Jaehwan in the back, slipping into one of Wonsik’s old, blood stained jackets; and his legs, bare and areobicized, were slim and long in the shorts he wore. He startled when Taekwoon touched his waist, then collapsed with a relieved sigh into Taekwoon’s chest, kissed his cheek.

'You’re late,’ he jeered. 'I said nine. It’s, like, ten.’

'It’s nine twenty-six.’

'Same  _thing,_ ’ but he was laughing. 'Need anything before we go?’ and Taekwoon couldn’t think of a single thing he would need from Domino, and so stared blankly at Jaehwan until he laughed louder, color staining his cheeks. 'I’m  _kidding_.’

Then through the back entrance, which was a heavy metal door with rusted bolts along its side, to shoulder through a crowd of dancers on their smoke break. They told Jaehwan goodnight, smiled kindly, but too many of them lingered on Taekwoon; either confused because he wasn’t Wonsik, or interested by the bruises on his face. Taekwoon kept his head tilted toward Jaehwan, mouth pressed to his temple, until they came to a sidewalk with brightly lit streetlamps: a flood of white light on pavement dirty with age.

'Hungry?’ Taekwoon asked.

Jaehwan’s mouth moved in response, but voice drowned out by the blare of a car horn. A man was shouting something across traffic; his tone aggressive; face: ugly even in the dark. Taekwoon, with his arm around Jaehwan’s waist, pulled them further down the street, asked bitterly, 'Don’t you ever change your clothes after work?’

Playful glint in his eye. 'Why should I?’

'To avoid  _that_?’

'They’ll do it anyway.’

Exasperated sigh; Taekwoon hoisted Jaehwan onto his back, wondered: what would that cat-calling old man think if Taekwoon were to put his fist in his mouth?

-

He was brewing coffee for only himself. Jaehwan, sat on the counter with his heels kicking the bottom cupboards, was picking through a bag of grapes Taekwoon had given him. Having refused Taekwoon’s sweatpants and t-shirt, he still wore his work attire, complete with strawberry decorated ankle socks. He was asking Taekwoon if he wanted a hand job, if he wanted to go to bed; Wonsik wouldn’t be there for another hour and Jaehwan was  _bored_.

'I’m fine,’ Taekwoon said, spooning sugar into his mug.

'When’s the last time you slept with someone, hyung?’

Taekwoon, who honestly couldn’t remember, shrugged one shoulder; sipped his drink. 'Does it matter?’

'Well, I don’t know. Maybe? Do you ever get off? Do you touch yourself? You know it’s been, like, six months since you slept with me and Wonsik. That’s, like, a fucking  _lifetime_.’

Taekwoon laughed into his coffee; gentle laugh, inaudible. 'How,’ and falling short, staring hard at the living room wall. He wasn’t sure if he’d imagined a thud from the opposing side—likely, as it seemed each night he waited for signs of a fight—but he stood, frozen, as if in rigor mortis, unable to breathe until he knew for sure.

'Hyung?’

Quietly hushing Jaehwan and waiting, waiting, mug hot against his palms. Another sound came, faraway and muted, as if from a different room in the apartment—the bedroom maybe? The kitchen? Taekwoon sighed heavily and dumped out his coffee.

Jaehwan, speaking carefully, 'What is it?’

'You didn’t hear that?’

'I don’t think so.’

Then: the howl of the subway; bright lights flooding through open windows, and shadows—nightmarish and unsettling—thrown across Taekwoon’s kitchen walls.

'Never mind,’ he muttered; and touching his face, he pulled at his eyes as if trying to pull them out of his head. 'I’m gonna… go.’

’ _Go_?’

'To the corner store.’

'Oh.’ Still swinging his feet, Jaehwan shoved a handful of grapes in his mouth. 'I’ll come with you.’

He’d rather be alone, but didn’t want to leave Jaehwan in the apartment if he didn’t want to be left; so back out into the night with the distant sound of traffic: car horns, and screeching brakes. They walked shoulder to shoulder, Taekwoon’s hand finding its way around Jaehwan’s waist whenever someone stared too long, too hard; and he wondered how Wonsik could stand it.

An 18-rack of beer and a pack of smokes; Jaehwan, fiddling with the sweets at the counter. Taekwoon bought him a candy bar, and wracked his knuckles on the back of Jaehwan’s head when he tried to shove half of it in his mouth.

'You’re gonna make yourself sick.’

'You really wanna scold me when you’re buying beer, hyung?’

Wonsik was waiting by the front door with a pack of his own beer and two bags of carry out. White hair limp with sweat and stuck to his forehead.

'I forgot the code,’ he said quietly, crooked smile lifting one side of his mouth. 'Didn’t wanna fuck up and have the cops come.’

Taekwoon told him it was alright, hoped he hadn’t been waiting long; and punching in the personalized access code on his apartment’s front door, he tried to ignore the rising sounds from the neighboring flat.

'Neighbors are at it again,’ Wonsik said, and it was the way he said it: disinterested, matter-of-factly, as if this was simply another part of life, that Taekwoon—inexplicably annoyed—felt the urge to leave.

'Is that what you heard earlier?’ Jaehwan asked.

'Drink your beer,’ Taekwoon said.

And Wonsik, eyes lingering on Jaehwan’s legs: 'Where the fuck are your  _clothes_?’

-

The music was turned loud, the television on but muted; and Taekwoon: lying on the sofa with an arm pillowed under his head, blinked tiredly at the images on the wall. Two empty beer cans were on the coffee table, one full on the floor; and Wonsik, crawling onto the couch to lie behind Taekwoon with his arm around his middle. He kissed the back of Taekwoon’s neck, asked if he was alright.

'Jaehwany said something, like you were upset? Or— I don’t know.’

'No. Tired.’

'Wanna go to bed then?’ He had a hand up the front of Taekwoon’s t-shirt, fingertips touching lightly, carefully. He kissed him again, gently this time.

And Taekwoon, closed eyed and smiling, pushed Wonsik’s hand away. 'I already told Jaehwan no.’ Wonsik made no efforts to move; and so—with some difficulty—Taekwoon turned to face him, chests pressed together and his arm draped over Wonsik’s waist. 'You go ahead. I’ll sleep later.’

'Well,’ embarrassed tilt of his head, his cheeks flamed. 'We aren’t gonna sleep…’

'That’s fine.’

'You can come in. If you want to. If you—if you change your mind, hyung. Just come in.’

Taekwoon said okay, though they both knew he wouldn’t; and continued to stare at the back of the sofa after Wonsik had left. The fighting had stopped for a few minutes only to start again, worse than before. Something had been thrown, something broken. He pressed cold hands over cold ears, begged the subway to make its round, because only then could everything be drowned out. But it never came.

He grabbed the pack of beer, grabbed the lukewarm can he’d been nursing, grabbed his pack of cigarettes, and left the apartment.

-

He didn’t want to drink, but he wanted to smoke; and the only way to wash out the taste of nicotine was with a mouthful of foam, so he drank, and he sat with his shoulders rounded, his knees apart; sat on the bottom step of the staircase, near the fire exit where the glare of emergency lights washed everything in a thin green haze.

He’d been here twenty minutes, but already his phone battery was drained; half past midnight and he was tired, so tired, wanted to lie in bed without a body pressed to his own. But he knew if he went upstairs now, he’d undoubtedly be pulled into bed with a boy on either side of him, and he couldn’t tell what it was anymore: if he liked their intimacy as he had months before, when everything was fun, when sleeping around was enough to fill whatever void was left in his heart from some love he never experienced, or if he’d simply lost interest. But it didn’t really matter anyway. They’d been happy before they met him, and they’d be happy without him; and it wasn’t the loss of contact, or a hand to hold that stopped Taekwoon from outright telling them, but that maybe one night—desperate to shake reality—he’d need one of them there, to pretend life was a dream and the dream was actuality, because more often than not: he could hardly pull himself from bed, to stomach the industrial life of a city slowly dying.

He thought of the country, wondered if the country still existed, or if it had been paved over with concrete buildings and eccentric, sallow light.

He cradled his face in his hand, let the cigarette burn between his fingers, unaware of the pain of embers against his skin. And under darkness of closed eyes, he leaned his head to the tile wall; let the cold seep into his head, and cool him.

-

He startled awake somewhere between fifteen and fifty minutes later, unsure what day it was anymore. A thunderclap of feet in the stairwell, running fast, running toward him; he’d barely climbed to his feet—knees weak and shaking considerably beneath the remains of a dream forgotten—when Hongbin, hand on the railing, came rushing around the corner. He was moving too quickly to stop, or maybe he hadn’t tried to stop at all; whole body slammed into Taekwoon’s chest—they’d have fallen in a heap had Taekwoon not gripped the rail, a hand instinctively curled around Hongbin’s back.

He was crying. He couldn’t breathe. Gasps of ragged breath so deep his chest heaved. Taekwoon imagined he must have been drunk, maybe high, because his hands—trembling violently—clutched the front of Taekwoon’s shirt as if he was someone Hongbin knew, or needed; and there he stayed: face buried in cotton already soaked through with tears.

Scared and not knowing why, Taekwoon tried to crane his neck to see up the stairs, make sure no one had followed Hongbin down; and upon looking, he found nothing but a deserted hall, incessant flicker of bulbs needing changed. And it was strange: how the glimmer of the lights matched the quiver of Hongbin’s heart: erratic, near concerning. His whole body trembled with something that could have been fear; and at this thought: suppressed anger and the taste of iron at the back of Taekwoon’s throat; his hands unconsciously gripped Hongbin closer.

Five minutes. Ten. Hongbin gradually caught his breath (but the tremors never ceased) and pulled his face from Taekwoon’s chest. His knees buckled; Taekwoon caught him before he collapsed.

'Are you okay?’ Taekwoon asked softly.

An answer in the form of a whine, and fresh water in his eyes. The corner of his mouth was bleeding; and looking at his own shirt, Taekwoon saw faint traces of red, faded to a pink, on the fabric. This might have mattered more to him if he wasn’t already so used to blood on his clothes. He caught Hongbin staring at the stain, pink glow in his cheeks that made his eyes look glossy; he tried not to look in Taekwoon’s face, mouth moving over words that wouldn’t come out.

Taekwoon wanted to touch him. He wanted to push the blood from his mouth and erase the marks on his face; all of them were old and fading, but Taekwoon knew they were there, knew the possibility of others in places he couldn’t see. Of more tomorrow, and the day after that. He asked again, 'Are you okay?’

There was a beat of silence, then: Hongbin speaking lowly. 'I need air,’ he said; and pushed down the stairs.

-

Sirens, blaring somewhere nearby. Taekwoon lit Hongbin’s cigarette, then lit his own; and together, in odd silence, they smoked.

'Do you ever hear the fighting?’ Hongbin asked sullenly.

'Not really,’ Taekwoon lied.

The tremor of his fingers didn’t quite stop—Taekwoon would later learn they never really stopped ever—but his mouth stilled, breath a little more even. For the first time that night, Hongbin looked up at Taekwoon’s face, dark eyes shielded by light hair; and in his eyes: misery flared.

'Did you get into a fight or something?’ he asked casually, as if nothing else had ever happened. Genuine curiosity, and his eyebrows furrowed. 'Your face.’

Taekwoon unconsciously touched the tender spot above his left eye. He nodded.

'What was it about?’

'Nothing.’

Hongbin’s face pinched with confusion. 'You fought for nothing?’

'For money, I guess. At Raceway.’ Hongbin continued to stare blankly. 'It’s a fight club,’ Taekwoon explained. 'Sort of. I don’t know. People bet on the fighters, you make money.’

'Street fighting?’

'Yeah.’

'Is it fun?’

'It used to be.’

Hongbin finished his cigarette, dropped it on the pavement. 'I’m gonna go back,’ he said.

'Alright.’

'Thanks for the…’ he toed at the cigarette. 'And sorry about—’

'That’s okay.’

He lingered, mouth opened. Taekwoon thought he’d say more, but he didn’t. He turned on his heels, scuffle of pebbles on the concrete, and went back to the emergency exit where the door was propped open with a brick Taekwoon had found.

He called Hongbin’s name softly, thought Hongbin wouldn’t hear him, but he did; and turning back with a hand touching his mouth, Hongbin waited. Taekwoon wasn’t sure how to speak anymore.

He struggled, gave a shrug; knowing what he wanted to say, but not knowing how to put it into words, he stood there silently until Hongbin asked what was wrong.

'I’m home,’ Taekwoon started, 'most days.’ He watched the exit sign, burning green in this small patch of darkness. 'If you ever need something…’

Hongbin didn’t move for a long time, was waiting for Taekwoon to throw his cigarette aside, walk to the exit; and it was only when Taekwoon was close enough so he could whisper that Hongbin asked, 'What’s your name?’

So Taekwoon told him.

03 It was a week later, and Taekwoon, holding a foam cup of mineral water, was in the back of Arcadia. Motor oil thick as congested blood stained cold linoleum; broken apart bolts and screws in scattered heaps; the odd gizmo that looked strange to Taekwoon’s unknowing eyes, and the crescendo of voices, hysteric, near terrifying. It was a bot fight; and though Taekwoon held little to no interest in fighting robots—preferred the hard packing sound of real flesh against bone—he’d come for Sanghyuk, who was perched on the bar top with a large remote controller in his equally large hands. Wonsik was here too, somewhere in the crowd. Taekwoon could hear him shouting at the robots as if they had ears of their own.

Face stone sober and his mouth parted open, Sanghyuk sat poised like a monk in a monastery: legs crossed, and vision unwavering. His robot—one he’d been improving since he was just sixteen—tore through the scarred linoleum with a serrated blade that posed as the robot’s hand; and taking with it: the limb of its opponent. Though this was a victory, Sanghyuk continued to watch with a deadened gaze that would make anyone uncomfortable. Taekwoon could remember when Sanghyuk was fourteen, building bots out of stolen car parts and the trash he’d found in the landfills; up until two in the morning, calling Taekwoon every twenty minutes to see if he’d come check on the robot’s improvement. So many nights spent trudging from his home to Sanghyuk’s own, to watch him demonstrate the newest attack pose he’d installed in the robot’s membrane.

He’d come a long way; lost a lot of battles, and won a lot more, and as he sat on the bar top with his spine straight and fingers moving levers Taekwoon would never learn to work, he reminded Taekwoon of a marble seraphim he’d seen once in a cathedral back before all the churches and temples had been burned down; pale, ethereal—but in this same moment, as Taekwoon’s mind reeled over memories mostly forgotten, Sanghyuk’s robot produced a blade not unlike an ice-pick, and as the robot sank this blade into its opponents circuit board, Sanghyuk’s face hardened, twisted into something far darker than any angel, and Taekwoon, feeling pride sink hard into his stomach, smiled.

-

Stack of cash folded over and pinned by a metal clip; Sanghyuk beamed brightly from his side of the booth. His robot, which he’d named Retrograde, sat peacefully on the tabletop. Its blades and spikes had all been put away, tucked into its hard metallic chest that posed as a body to its inner workings. Taekwoon had a feeling Sanghyuk hadn’t noticed, but his left hand, periodically touching Retrograde’s leg, kept shifting closer to the bot as if he was afraid it’d run off.

The thought was unsettling; Taekwoon cleared his throat.

'Way cool,’ Wonsik was saying. 'You looked so fucking cool out there, Hyuk-ah,’ and he put his arm around Sanghyuk’s broad shoulders. Sanghyuk smiled bashfully, cheeks a bright red; he stared at the table with his hands laced together, and it was now Taekwoon was reminded that, big or not, Sanghyuk was still a boy, not yet twenty-two. Taekwoon couldn’t help but reach over, touch Sanghyuk’s hand; tender touch, he removed his hand a second later.

'Shots!’ Wonsik announced happily. 'Let’s get some shots!’ and bounding from the table without hearing a response, he beat the crowd to the bar.

Sitting in a not uncomfortable silence, Sanghyuk sipped from his bottle of Perrier, looked up at Taekwoon through hair that had grown long over his eyes. And just as Taekwoon’s mouth opened, he said loudly: 'I almost forgot!’ and pulled his knapsack from beneath the table. Clatter of tools and spray paint bottles, he took out a Novel Board still wrapped in its protective casing.

'I bought this for your birthday, hyung, but I haven’t seen you in so long.’ He pushed the Board across the table. 'I know your old one was broken. I don’t know if you got a new one? —no, don’t tell me if you did or not,’ he interrupted when Taekwoon went to answer. 'I wanna pretend you don’t have one so this one doesn’t go to waste.’

Taekwoon hadn’t bought a new Board since his last one short circuited. The one Sanghyuk gave him was the newest model; said to be able to hold over a thousand titles. The old Novel Board only held two hundred; a small amount for such a high gadget. Since the turn of the century—eighty years ago—all paper books had been first replaced by e-readers, but due to complaints on these—hardcore book enthusiasts saddened by the unbookish model of the e-readers—the publishing companies had began producing Novel Boards. They looked like books: hard cover, front and back, but as one opened a Novel Board, they first saw that there was only one page: a screen like a monitor posing as the book’s interior. It was lit by clear fluorescence, an LED light that could be dimmed to one’s preference. There was a USB input along the Novel Board’s side where one plugged in their USB device. It was on the USB the actual books were kept, then uploaded into the Board’s memory. Then one could select from the uploaded titles which book they’d like to read, and upon selection the Novel Board’s cover would change to the original book cover; and along the electronic spine: the book’s title written in scrolling letters; bright, block and in Impact font. Right now, Taekwoon saw the title: The Catcher In The Rye, a very old, once acclaimed book written by a man over a hundred years ago. Taekwoon smiled gratefully.

'It’s cool because the new version,’ Sanghyuk was saying, 'comes with pre-uploaded titles. So I picked classics from the 20th century, thought you’d like that. You know, you’re always reading those old books, hyung.’

'Thank you, Hyuk-ah.’ A touch of heat in his cheeks, Taekwoon carefully traced the Novel Board’s edge. 'By the way,’ he said quietly, 'I haven’t bought a new Board yet, so this wasn’t a waste.’

Sanghyuk smiled brightly. 'Good.’ Another sip of his water, he asked, a little sullenly: 'Hyung, are you still fighting? I saw your face when you got here and I thought maybe you fell or something, but.. but that’s not likely, is it?’ Taekwoon shook his head. 'And Wonsik hyung’s face is messed up too. Are you still going to Raceway?’

'Every once in a while.’

'Hyung…’

'It isn’t permanent.’

'You said you’d quit fighting.’

'I will.’

'You said that five  _years ago_ , hyung.’

Taekwoon was quiet for a long time, staring at the table top, then staring at the ceiling. He touched his forehead and thought of how badly he wanted a cigarette. 'I need the money,’ he said slowly. 'There aren’t a lot of good jobs anymore, you know that.’ He glared to emphasize this, motioned to the arcade. 'You either become a bartender, a pimp, or a stripper. Think I can do any of that?’ and he blushed simply at the thought of taking his clothes off in front of watchful men.

'Well, look at  _this_ —’ Sanghyuk held up his winnings. 'I can pay my rent for the rest of the year just from  _three_  fights. One night! You—’

'At least what I do isn’t illegal.’

'Hyung.’

Leaned over the table, hushed whisper: 'You know if the authorities came in and took your money, they’d be allowed to do that. Because bot fighting is  _illegal_. At least with street fighting I have a permit, and can get away with it.’

Sanghyuk, unperturbed, scoffed softly. 'When’s the last time you ever saw an officer, hyung?’ and there was no mockery in his tone, only genuine statement. 'They don’t even exist anymore. They say they do, but they don’t.’

'You really believe that?’

Sanghyuk shrugged. 'What do  _you_  believe?’

Softly, 'I don’t know.’

Wonsik had a tray of small shots, eight in total, and was carefully making his way back to their booth. Sanghyuk, noticing this, whispered hurriedly: 'I’m not trying to be a brat OK? I’m just worried. What if you get, like, brain damage or something? You want to have  _brain_  damage, hyung?’ He spoke over Taekwoon who tried to answer. 'I know it’s not permanent, I heard you. But.. but try and get out of it soon? Before you lose your sense.’

'I just need to save up,’ Taekwoon said. 'That’s all. Once I have enough, I’ll stop.’

'Enough for what?’

Taekwoon stared at his hands.

'You’re still thinking about leaving, hyung?’

'You aren’t?’

And waiting only a beat because Wonsik was close. 'Not anymore. I think I’m finally happy here. Aren’t you happy?’

Taekwoon, accepting the glass Wonsik gave him, said very quietly, 'Sometimes. But not really.’

-

When Taekwoon was a teenager and Sanghyuk was only a child, Sanghyuk used to tell him he’d do anything to get away from the city. He said it was scary, building too fast; so many broken bits left behind: torn apart pavements, buildings leaning as if threatening to fall. Abandoned cars parked like carcasses along the sidewalk’s edge.  _Even the sky looks different_ , Sanghyuk had said.  _It used to be so blue, I remember. Now it’s gross like it’s dying._  And he’d been right; smog like artificial fog clouded the sky like a veil every night, and every morning the sun rose under murky clouds like dirty water. Taekwoon had always thought: if he ever got away, Sanghyuk would go with him. Together they’d see the rest of the world, take a ship to the states, to the jungle; anywhere but here. But it’d been so long since they spoke about this, almost three years, and no longer did they believe wide open space existed. Industrial skylines and starships (the new and improved airplane that hovered more than flew, could take one to any place on earth in under 10 hours due to aerodynamic speed, but were mostly used as inner city taxicabs, nicknamed skycabs) corroded the sky, turned it ugly. But still: Taekwoon wanted to go, to see for himself if it was possible to live in a place undisturbed by technology. And as he lay on the hood of some broken down vehicle with the windows shattered and the interior torn apart with Wonsik beside him, he wondered out loud: 'Do you ever get tired of these buildings?’

Sanghyuk had gone home more than two hours ago, left with a quick kiss to Taekwoon’s mouth and an urgent squeeze of Taekwoon’s hand as if silently begging him to remember what they’d talked about.

'What buildings?’ Wonsik asked through a mouthful of smoke. He handed the cigarette over to Taekwoon.

'All of them.’

'I think they’re nice,’ he said. 'Nice to look at. They’re colorful and shit,’ and he was right: they were colorful. Some lined with blue phosphorescence, some with green; there were pinks and purples, whole city painted like a children’s coloring book.

'That’s not what I mean,’ Taekwoon said. 'Does it ever bore you? Like, are you tired of looking at the same buildings?’

'I don’t like to think about that stuff.’

'Why not?’

'Because,’ Wonsik said hesitantly. 'It’d depress me.’

Taekwoon snorted, and looked at the sky. And it was as they were walking back to his flat, passing club Domino where Jaehwan would be for most of the night (it was Saturday; full house and a line out the door), Taekwoon asked, 'Do you think police officers still exist?’

'Police officers?’ Wonsik thought about this for a long time, hand in his hair and eyes on the ground. 'I don’t think so. Like, maybe? But thinking about it… I don’t know. I haven’t seen a cop since the last raid at Raceway. That was a long time ago.’

'The crime rates are so low, though,’ Taekwoon said thoughtfully.

'Well, yeah, but… what’s left to even steal around here?’

Taekwoon didn’t have an answer for that, and so kept walking.

-

He was waiting by Taekwoon’s front door; shuffling white sneakers, and the same faded pink jacket zipped to his throat. The collar was pulled over his mouth, head down with hair fallen in his eyes; and it wasn’t that Taekwoon hadn’t expected him to come—had, in fact, hoped for this—but to actually see Hongbin waiting with hands in his pockets and eyes on his feet had warmth flooding into Taekwoon’s face. He smiled.

'Who’s that?’ Wonsik whispered, barely audible. Taekwoon told him not to worry about it, to go inside. Wonsik obliged without a fight, but smirked capriciously, touched Taekwoon’s elbow in a way that made him glare.

No hello’s, but rather their eyes met; acknowledgment of a moment—though strange—all their own. Hongbin’s glance flickered away after only a second, color in his cheeks and a quirk at the corner of his mouth; Taekwoon wondered what he looked like when he smiled.

'I haven’t been waiting long,’ Hongbin said quietly, and it was as if he’d known what question sat at the end of Taekwoon’s tongue, could probably find the concern in his face if Hongbin looked at him again. 'Just so you know. I’ve been here, like, five minutes. I figured you’d be—you know—that you’d be back soon.’

'Did you need something?’ It was the way Hongbin didn’t quite give an answer except for a small sound he made at the back of his throat; how he averted every glance Taekwoon gave him to rather stare at his hands, the floor; he looked over his shoulder to his own apartment door, then back to Taekwoon’s. Strong sense of discomfort, Hongbin: unable to say what he wanted.

'Did you need company?’ Taekwoon asked gently.

Faintly, 'Yeah.’ He picked at his fingers. Taekwoon had a sudden urge to hold them. 'It’s that, —you’re the only person I know around here now. Like, I didn’t know anyone before and—’ words rushing from his mouth like water from a broken dam— 'I wanna go for a walk.’

Taekwoon smiled subtly, said, 'Okay,’ and once he’d poked his head inside to tell Wonsik he’d be back later, to lock the door if he left, they filed down the steps, Hongbin leading the way.

Then: smoking by the exit door, Hongbin watched his cigarette burn and told Taekwoon he was sorry for what happened. 'I didn’t mean to, like, cry on you,’ he said softly. 'I don’t even know why I did that. It’s… embarrassing to think about.’

'Then don’t think about it.’

'Do  _you_  think about it?’

'No,’ Taekwoon said. 'It’s not the weirdest thing to happen to me.’

Hongbin looked at him then, stared right into his face with eyes on fire, searching for a giveaway that would tell him Taekwoon hadn’t meant what he said. Convinced—or maybe he simply didn’t care—Hongbin tilted his head back as if feeling wind on his face—though there wasn’t a single burst of air around them. He watched the subway as it passed overhead.

'Are you naturally understanding,’ Hongbin asked, 'or do you just not care?’

'Both, I guess,’ but Taekwoon’s voice was lost under the whir of the cart. He finished his cigarette, stubbed it out on the bottom of his boot; and it was after the cart passed that he asked, 'Do you wanna get a drink? Go somewhere.’

Hongbin said he did.

So: two beers from the corner store wrapped in separate paper bags. Hongbin laughed about this for some reason, blatantly amused. He said he’d seen it in a movie once, a really old movie from the 20th century. He said he didn’t think people really walked around with beers in paper bags. Taekwoon smiled, but didn’t understand.

They walked from street corners to back alleys, through low ceiling tunnels with holes in the concrete, graffiti decorated sidewalks; Hongbin told Taekwoon he’d been in Seoul six months, came from the northern part of the country where the city had yet to reach. Taekwoon’s chest restricted on a heart that suddenly felt too large, watched Hongbin speak—utterly immersed in the way his mouth arched over words; and he thought out loud: 'Why would you ever come here?’

'Nothing ever happened there,’ Hongbin told him. 'It was dead space.’

'But it’s  _there_.’ Taekwoon looked away once Hongbin looked at him, and to his horror: thought he might cry, but for what reason he couldn’t be sure. He thought of open fields, eroded street signs. Water damaged tin roofs and stray cats along the street sides. He thought of driving with the windows down, summer air bursting from the car vents; fresh air, fresher than Seoul’s had ever been. He touched his cheek, and brought back damp fingers.

If it wasn’t for the echo of the tunnel, Taekwoon never would have heard Hongbin’s voice, light as air. 'Are you okay?’ concern in the form of deep lines on his forehead, he was frowning.

'I'm—’ forcefully laughing at himself, because he felt if he didn’t he’d die— 'fine.’

'Did I say something—?’

'No. I just, I thought the country wasn’t real. You’re saying it is. That’s, that’s a lot to think about.’ Then, before Hongbin could say anything else: 'There’s a canal up here—’ he pointed to the other side of the tunnel. 'I think we should go there.’

They sat on the edge of a stone wall, feet dangling over distilled, murky waters that reminded Taekwoon of liquid iron: glowing silver under a dark sky, reflecting the buildings, the windows; all the light they could see: there, in the water, staring back at them.

Taekwoon opened Hongbin’s beer, opened his own; he gulped a mouthful—painful swallow of a throat grown tight—and wiping his hand over his mouth, he turned to Hongbin. He asked, 'What’s it like there? What does it look like.’

'Dull,’ Hongbin said. 'Dark, too. Even the sun. It looks different there. Like in the morning when it rises, it’s not like here, you know, how it reflects off everything and it’s like… really nice? Rainbow lights.’ He waited for Taekwoon’s nod. 'The skies are always cloudy, but the clouds are different too. They’re white.’ He had the beer resting on his lower lip, was readying himself to take a drink when suddenly, eyes lighting up brighter than those on the water, he said: 'There are real trees there,’ and he said this proudly as if it was the very best part of the country, and maybe it was. Because here, in the city, the trees were made of aluminum; chrome colored leaves with oxygen tubes feeding fresh air into open space.

Hongbin took a deep pull from his drink, and asked Taekwoon shyly if he could get another cigarette. A chest full of smoke, eyes squinting against the fumes floating into his face, Hongbin said very softly, 'It’s awful there.’

Taekwoon had known the northern region wasn’t a good place. It had been talked about when he was in school—he wasn’t sure if they taught it anymore—, how in the early millennium it had been blocked off. Little grew there anymore, and thinking about it now, he wondered if Seoul—in all it’s artificiality—was better than most places. The thought depressed him; and growing despondent, he asked, 'Is that why you haven’t gone back?’

'I’d never go back there,’ Hongbin said defiantly, then lowered his chin to his chest. 'But I wouldn’t stay here either, if I had a choice.’

Taekwoon’s stomach turned uncomfortably. He gripped his beer, denting the aluminum. He asked through a mouth thick with spit, 'Why don’t you have a choice?’ and the thought alone of what Hongbin might say made his blood boil.

'There aren’t a lot of jobs here,’ he explained. 'I don’t know how the get money—’ and here: a laugh, hollow and humorless. 'If I could get money, then I could leave, but I— don’t know how.’

'You could bet on fights.’

He waved Taekwoon’s words away as if they were smoke floating too close to his face. 'I’m not interested in fights.’

But there weren’t many other options; Taekwoon stayed quiet, nursed his beer.

'I was thinking, though,’ Hongbin said. 'There’s a place not far from here. It’s a-a club, I think? It’s like—’

'Are you talking about club Domino?’

'Probably.’

'The cat house?’

’ _Yeah_.’

'You wanna work at a cat house?’

Hongbin recoiled. Taekwoon wasn’t sure what his face gave away. Hongbin touched the tips of his fingers to his lower lip, pulled at loose skin there. 'They make good money. Have you ever been there?’

'Not for the entertainment. My friend works there.’

He perked up immediately, all the worry lines of his face smoothed out, and coming closer—but not much—to Taekwoon’s side, he asked, 'What’s it like?’

Tired eyes watching the waters, Taekwoon could remember clearly: nights Jaehwan had come limping through his front door with reddened cheeks and eyes glossed over with something not even Wonsik could coax out of him. He’d seen the bruises, Jaehwan had shown him, deep purples and greens coating the inside of his thighs; his eye had been bloodshot one time, the corner of his mouth torn. If the customer had the money, and the boy had the patience, anything could happen, even the most ugliest of things; and though Jaehwan never talked about it anymore Taekwoon still noticed marks on his wrists where hands had held too hard, the way he’d favor one side of his body for a week at a time.

'They’re bad places,’ Taekwoon said carefully. He thought of Hongbin with his pink hair, make-up on his eyes. He was small, but not fragile; a combination hardly found anymore, and to imagine the type of men who would pick him out of the bunch, take him into one of the glass rooms where no one could intervene had a sour taste settling on the back of Taekwoon’s tongue. He said again, 'They’re bad places, Hongbin. Really bad.’

Hongbin waited patiently for Taekwoon to go on, drank his beer curled in on himself.

'The men who go to those places… they’re not good people.’ He noticed now a mark on Hongbin’s neck, oddly shaped. He thought for a moment it was a hickey, but looked a little longer. It was as if someone had pinched him, nails digging into his skin, crescent moon shaped bruises. Taekwoon sighed. 'You shouldn’t be around men who go to those places, they— they go there to misuse boys. It’s the only way they can get away with it.’ Hesitantly, staring at the bruise: 'You… already deal with a lot.’

Hongbin’s mouth parted. He pulled himself back as if startled, and looking away he touched the back of his hair.

'I’m sorry,’ Taekwoon muttered, head low between his shoulders. 'I meant to say that… you don’t have to work somewhere they’ll hurt you. You don’t have to hurt at all.’ He wasn’t sure what he was saying anymore, what he was even thinking about. Anger gone and replaced with regret, he heard the muffled thump of aluminum against hard ground: Hongbin, setting his beer down, and it rattled against the concrete like maybe it was trembling along with his hands.

Hongbin rose on legs that looked as if they’d buckle at any moment; and Taekwoon, dismayed, knowing he’d crossed a line, was trying to say he’d walk Hongbin home. But before the words could come out of his mouth, before he had them completely thought up, Hongbin wrapped both arms around Taekwoon’s neck, and crawled into his lap without so much as a whimper. He was sniffling hard, whole body trembling; and he buried his face hard into the side of Taekwoon’s neck.

It was an awkward position: Hongbin, with his knees together, sat sideways in Taekwoon’s lap; chest pressed snug to Taekwoon’s own. He was tall and long limbed, but felt small in Taekwoon’s arms. He tried to hold all of Hongbin at once, confusion mingling with understanding; he felt as if he was in a dream. And the neon looked brighter somehow, the sky darker; there was the whir of a starship somewhere behind the buildings, and the rattle of paper cups and tin cans in alleyways, blown freely by the starship’s exhaust. It was the only wind Seoul ever got anymore.

It was a long time before Hongbin spoke, and when he finally did: voice softened by the skin of Taekwoon’s neck. 'You don’t even know me,’ he said.

'No.’

'Then why do you wanna take care of me?’

'I don’t know,’ Taekwoon said honestly. 'It’s a feeling I get. When I look at you, my chest hurts.’

Hongbin pulled back with a hand on either of Taekwoon’s shoulders. He was searching again, looking for whatever he could find in Taekwoon’s face, but it was different this time; a desperate sort of search as if terrified of what he’d see.

'It isn’t pity,’ Taekwoon told him. 'It’s something else.’

With the tip of his finger, slightly rough, Hongbin touched Taekwoon’s jaw; forehead still creased. He slowly, hesitantly, melted forward; and heart fluttering hard inside him—Taekwoon could feel every beat through Hongbin’s jacket—Hongbin touched his mouth to Taekwoon’s own. Sparks like fairy lights burst behind now closed eyes, and sitting there on the cold ground, legs crossed and his arms wrapped tightly about Hongbin’s middle, Taekwoon kissed him back. He cradled the side of Hongbin’s face in a palm that had grown sweaty, and kissed him softly, open mouthed and breathless. His palm pressed hard against Hongbin’s back as a sound like a sob fell out of Hongbin’s mouth; and Taekwoon wanted to ask: when was the last time he’d been handled gently? It hurt him to think about it, and so ignored everything, even the world. Ignored the blare of traffic and oncoming trains; the dirty water, the dying city. Bright neon like falling stars flickering behind them, and Taekwoon: unaware of everything except for the boy in his lap who wouldn’t stop shaking.

Hongbin leaned his forehead to Taekwoon’s cheek. He took a deep breath, sank harder into Taekwoon’s chest. 'Are you gonna take care of me?’ he whined.

And Taekwoon—wanting nothing more than to disappear, to take Hongbin with him—thought again of the mark on Hongbin’s neck, and the bitter reality that he was a boy unloved.

Taekwoon meant it when he said, 'As long as you let me.’

 

04 It was a Wednesday and Taekwoon was at Optech, a night club with a self serving bar and purple florescence beaming from overhead. He’d come with Wonsik, met Jaehwan in the back room; and now sat at a booth with the two of them, Taekwoon ordered a J&B though he didn’t really want it. The drinks were dispensed from a tube set up in the middle of the table: a cylinder portal where one could type in the numeric code of the drink they wished to order, and within seconds a flask of the drink would come up the tube; no bartenders needed. He struggled with the device every time, hated the way the drink tasted from a cup not made of glass, and hoped despairingly that drink tubes wouldn’t catch on anytime soon.

Caught up in the bitter aftertaste of his J&B, Taekwoon hardly noticed Jaehwan’s unresponsive nature. It was three days after the weekend, and though these days were usually the hardest, he’d grown accustomed to the way Jaehwan’s hands lingered in his own pockets, eyes downcast and far away. But tonight it seemed different. He’d shrugged off Wonsik’s numerous attempts at small talk, kept his face turned away from the both of them; would acknowledge nothing.

Taekwoon, finally noticing the distress in Wonsik’s face, set his cup down; raised an eyebrow.

'I’m going to the bathroom,’ Jaehwan announced to no one in particular. He waited patiently for Wonsik to let him out of the booth, but ignored his offered hand. He said he could stand on his own; and leaving a trail of cold silence behind him, he left.

Wonsik watched him go, didn’t mention Jaehwan’s slight limp, but sliding over to Taekwoon’s side of the booth, he said: 'I don’t think he can last there much longer.’

'Domino’s?’

'It’s killing him.’

Taekwoon said nothing to this. Jaehwan had been employed as a sex worker since he’d turned 18, and going on seven years of being thrown around by men bigger than him the only surprising thing about his growing dysphoria was that it’d taken so long to catch up with him.

'What if he stops working weekends,’ Taekwoon offered weakly.

Wonsik scoffed, and buried his face against his hands. 'They’d never let him do that. He’s too high profile. Did you know that? He brings in the most money on the weekends. Always requested by some—some fucker with a wedding band. He—’ inadvertently clenched fists, he groaned. 'He won’t even talk to me about it.’

Taekwoon tried to hide his shock as Wonsik, whining miserably, fell into his side. It was a moment of utter discomposure, Wonsik: shaking all over like he’d never done before. His entire body was slumped into Taekwoon’s own, a hand holding Taekwoon’s thigh with the fingers curled painfully into his leg. It was like he didn’t notice the anger in his own bones, how much spite thrived through him.

'I need a cigarette,’ Wonsik muttered; and as quickly as he’d fallen, he was back on his feet, digging into his pockets for the pack of Reds he’d bought on the way to Optech. 'Come outside if you want.’

But Taekwoon didn’t want to, so he waited in the booth and finished his drink. He ordered another, and finished that too; waiting, waiting, not knowing if Wonsik would come back soon, if Jaehwan would come back at all. There was a fit of unease sinking hard into his stomach like a stone in black water, and the undeniable taste of loneliness bubbling up and coating the back of his throat. He missed Hongbin—terribly; it was like a weight in his chest threatening to collapse inside him. Aside from a momentary exchange in the hallway some days ago (Hongbin had startled Taekwoon by taking his face between his hands and, kissing him hard, pulled Taekwoon toward the hallway wall where he’d pinned himself there between Taekwoon’s chest and the wall itself. Fever-like warmth all over his skin, Taekwoon had lifted Hongbin easily into his arms, legs wrapped tightly about his waist; and there in the hall, without a soul around, he’d put his tongue in Hongbin’s mouth and felt him shiver against him. It’d all been cut dramatically short by a door closing on some far away floor, and the knowledge that at some point  _someone_  would come by) Taekwoon hadn’t seen him in over three days. The weight seemed to grow heavier with the acknowledgment of its existence, and feeling sullen, Taekwoon left the booth.

He stopped at the Men’s room, and the door was unlocked. Jaehwan, perched on the counter top, was swaying to a beat Taekwoon didn’t hear; his eyes shut, head down low.

'What did you take?’ Taekwoon asked. He cradled either side of Jaehwan’s face. Eyes barely open and a look like a grimace touching his mouth.

Jaehwan said, 'Muscle relaxer.’

'What for.’

'I can’t sleep.’

Taekwoon pushed the sweaty hair off Jaehwan’s forehead. 'You wanna sleep in the bathroom?’

'Anywhere… is fine.’

Taekwoon backed away then, unsure where he should look. He rubbed his neck, the back of his head; he wet his hands then wet his hair, and watching Jaehwan from the corner of his eye, he asked: 'Do you wanna talk about it?’

'Nope.’

He thought he understood—at least a little—why Wonsik had reacted the way he did. 'I’ll go back to the booth.’

'Hyung.’ He rubbed his eyes and slumped against the wall. 'Can you hold me? For a minute.’

Taekwoon said he could, and put both arms around Jaehwan’s neck. He held Jaehwan’s head to his chest, feeling the exhausted tremors run through him in waves. He thought now—more fiercely than he could remember ever thinking before—of how tainted the city was. It would swallow a person whole, but rather than spitting them out in pieces, it kept them locked inside until even their bones were soft with despair.

'Can we go home?’ Jaehwan asked.

-

It was half one in the morning when they’d finally left Optech; and back at Taekwoon’s flat (he’d given them the bedroom for the night, knowing there was no logical way Wonsik could carry Jaehwan back to their own apartment across town), Taekwoon wrapped himself in a thin blanket, and collapsed on the couch.

Jaehwan had gone to bed as soon as they’d arrived, and Wonsik—warily touching his forehead as if staving off a headache—had brewed himself a cup of coffee, but left it to chill on the counter as he took a mineral water from the back of the fridge, a small blue pill from his pocket.

'Ambien,’ he told Taekwoon.

'He already took something.’

'It’s for me.’ He dry swallowed the pill, flushed it from his throat with a mouthful of water; and leaning his weight to one side, he stared at the mug on the counter. 'What did he take, hyung?’

'He said it was a muscle relaxer.’

'Who gave it to him?’

'I didn’t ask.’

Wonsik sighed, deep sigh like he couldn’t quite catch his breath; he drank his coffee. And standing there for a long time, not speaking—so long it made Taekwoon uneasy—Taekwoon began to wonder if he should get up, talk to him, maybe go to the bedroom, talk to Jaehwan.

Desperately, he asked: 'Wonsik-ah, what are you gonna do?’

'There’s nothing I  _can_  do. I—’ a sound like a whimper that made Taekwoon’s heart jolt— 'I take care of him, don’t I?’ Taekwoon told him he did. 'I make myself available whenever he needs me. Even when I’m working. I—I make sure he has everything he needs.’

'I don’t think he needs anything,’ Taekwoon said.

'I don’t think so either,’ Wonsik said back. 'I think he’s just fucked.’

Here: a memory—fleeting and only half formed before it left—of Jaehwan’s first night at Domino. He’d been red faced and trembling, begging Wonsik to come watch him dance because he was certain he’d fall off the stage, that not a single customer would be willing to pay him. Taekwoon had been pulled along, begrudgingly tugged by his hand through a club too dark to see his feet, and he’d felt dirty simply being there: hiding in a booth with his hood pulled low over his head and his mouth tucked beneath the collar. He could remember the lights, the way Wonsik had smiled: proud of the boy who’d chosen to love him. The pride was still there if Taekwoon looked hard enough, deep seated and buried under all the guilt. It shined brighter on nights Jaehwan came home smiling, when the Chrome Card was loaded and the rent paid; pride like wonderment filling all the holes animosity had created over the years. There, but gone instantly when the next night came; when the weekends came. Jaehwan, falling through the front door too drunk to stand with Wonsik’s arm tightly bound about the small of his back. Wonsik would look to Taekwoon then with nothing but misery etched into distant eyes.

Taekwoon told him to get some sleep, but already Wonsik was cradling the mug; heading for the bedroom with a soft spoken goodnight passed over his shoulder. Then the door shut, and the lock clicked into place—something that never happened anymore—and it was with this gentle metallic click that Taekwoon felt everything fall into light. There was now a barrier, whether anyone realized it or not. It’d been forming slowly over the passing months, but now it was there like a concrete wall, one where cracks may form over time, but never broken through. He’d no longer be asked to join them in the bedroom, or have Jaehwan crawl into his lap on nights Wonsik worked late. But that was alright, he understood, because one was broken and the other breaking and Taekwoon couldn’t fix either. He didn’t know how to.

He thought of Hongbin. He thought of the city. He thought of the LED lights coming through his window like a downpour of rain, shining from somewhere overhead. They came from everywhere, all the time. Bright, preternatural light beautiful in the way toxic things were. He looked around his apartment, and wondered: is this how everything ends? Bathed in thin blue illuminance.

-

It was nearing four in the morning when a fluttering knock came through the door: quickly paced and sounding like birds wings against a hard wind. Taekwoon, who’d been asleep, rolled off the couch with the blanket he’d been curled beneath around his shoulders; and answering the door: there, with his fingers in his mouth, was Hongbin.

'He’s working overnight,’ he said quietly. It was hard to tell if he’d slept yet. 'Can I stay here with you?’

If it hadn’t been for the way his eyes wouldn’t quite open, how his hands—suddenly sweaty—felt like anvils attached to his arms, Taekwoon would have grabbed Hongbin by the shoulders and pulled him to his chest. But for now all he could do was mutter a guttural, 'Yeah,’ and try to blink the sleep from his eyes.

Apology written all over Hongbin’s face; he opened his mouth and Taekwoon—already knowing what would come falling out—shut the door with his hand on Hongbin’s waist. He pressed his forehead to Hongbin’s cheek, and with a hand cradling the side of his jaw, rested his thumb over Hongbin’s mouth; gentle way of keeping him silent. He wrapped the blanket around Hongbin’s shoulders, his arms around Hongbin’s neck; and the scent of his cologne—subtle on the collar of his shirt—left Taekwoon’s skin in ripples.

They fell onto the couch, but it wasn’t long before Hongbin started to squirm, trying to work his face out of the blanket, out of Taekwoon’s chest; and huffing a sigh when he realized he was stuck, Taekwoon smiled.

'You alright?’

He nodded. Taekwoon asked if he wanted coffee.

So: into the kitchen with the blanket still around him, Taekwoon filled the carafe with water, let the coffee brew. He was acutely aware of Hongbin hovering behind him, hands to himself; and it wasn’t until Taekwoon turned to look at him that Hongbin came to him, and wrapped his arms around Taekwoon’s middle.

'Do you sleep on the couch or something?’ he asked, voice muffled by the front of Taekwoon’s shirt.

'My friends are staying the night. They have the room.’

'I thought maybe someone lived with you? The boy with the white hair.’

'No. He’s just… always here.’ Small smile, Taekwoon lit himself a cigarette. And to the window with Hongbin beside him, they passed the cigarette between them as the smell of coffee grounds wafted through the apartment; small apartment, smells travel.

The sky was still pitted black, no signs of impending dawn, but it’d come within the next hour or two. It was hard to tell anymore with the sleepless lights always brightening the horizon as if they lived under perpetual morning. Hongbin told him the boy he lived with would be working nights now, hardly home and always asleep. The cheer was stark in his voice, a glint in his eyes akin to happiness.

'You can just come over then,’ Taekwoon said. 'I’ll give you the access key. You don’t have to knock.’

'You’re awfully trusting,’ Hongbin said.

'So are you.’

They drank their coffee in front of the television, the coffee table pushed aside so they could curl up on the floor with holographic light flooding over them; and as Taekwoon flipped mechanically through channels he hardly ever watched, Hongbin took the Novel Board—tucked neatly in the side of the couch between the cushions and the arm rest—and turned it over in his hands. The cover was dully lit, decorated with George Orwell’s 1984. He was reading the first page, mouthing silently over the words, completely unaware of Taekwoon watching him; and as he leaned his back to the foot of the couch, knees pulled up to his body, he worked his thumb nail into his mouth, chewed on it.

Taekwoon left him alone and watched a program about a robot that developed human emotions; mindlessly bored, he never noticed when his eyes grew heavy, falling shut; and maybe he was asleep for five minutes, probably less, when Hongbin nuzzled his face into his neck. Leap of his heart, startled but able to hide it, Taekwoon leaned his cheek to Hongbin’s forehead.

'You can keep reading,’ he mumbled.

'I was only looking.’ He took his face from Taekwoon’s neck, and wrapped an arm around his shoulders; and very gently, he pulled Taekwoon into his arms, let him bury his face against his shoulder. He asked, 'Do you wanna sleep?’ and his fingers—thin, sharp knuckled—were carding through the back of Taekwoon’s hair, blunt nails against his scalp sending shivers up his arms; soft tingles pressed into the dusty soles of his feet.

'No, it's—’ clearing his throat— 'it’s the program. It’s… stupid.’

'Change it.’

'I’m not watching anymore.’ Hongbin laughed at this, and held Taekwoon tighter.

Explosions from the television, a barrage of bullets; it sounded like a war film when one wasn’t paying attention, and all the noise—though turned low—was deafening as Taekwoon tried to bury himself into Hongbin’s silence, enclosed in arms that felt heavy around him. He placed his hand on Hongbin’s waist, sharp bones feeling small between his fingers; eyes closed and lips parted, breathing soft puffs of air against Hongbin’s neck, Taekwoon pushed his hand up the back of his shirt. It was the first time he’d felt bare skin against his palm, soft like silk with all the knobs of his spine hard underneath; Taekwoon pressed his fingertips gently into Hongbin’s bones, and following the arch of his vertebrae: felt Hongbin’s back straighten. He threw his leg over Taekwoon’s middle, eliminating all space that had been between them—though there hadn’t been much.

A sigh like a moan, Hongbin said Taekwoon’s name, breathed heavily into his ear. Taekwoon, burning up, feeling heat plummet from his face and into his stomach, tipped his head back. He didn’t have time to think before Hongbin’s mouth was latched to his own, soft lips bitten raw; Hongbin whispered into his mouth: 'I wanna kiss you all the time.’

Taekwoon took Hongbin’s lower lip between his teeth, nipped lightly. He was melting, hot all over, as Hongbin ran his hand along the front of Taekwoon’s chest, palming him through his shirt. He lingered on his stomach, felt what muscle was there, then down to his waist where he dug his thumb into where Taekwoon’s hip met his thigh. He squirmed; feather light touch that tickled, made his toes curl.

He was too hot; sweat on his nape and half hard in his pants, Taekwoon was embarrassed by his own excitement, and in a fit of despair: he pushed Hongbin onto his back, hovered over him.

'I have a fight next week,’ he whispered, too breathless to speak in normal tones. 'On Friday. Will you come with me?’

Hongbin said he would in a voice just as soft.

'I’ll show you how to bet on the fights. You can make money at least.’

Hongbin touched his fingers to Taekwoon’s mouth. 'Should I bet on you?’

'Uh—’ lightly kissing every knuckle in Hongbin’s index finger— 'probably not.’ He laughed when Hongbin snorted, eyes rolled dramatically. 'I don’t win enough for the odds to be very good, but…’

'I’ll bet on you anyway.’ He cupped the back of Taekwoon’s neck, and whispered, 'Come here,’ but Taekwoon wouldn’t budge. Face still burning, he thought a moment out of Hongbin’s reach would have calmed him, but it’d only made it worse; body tense and his mind: wiped clean.

Taekwoon tipped his chin to his chest, wordlessly motioning to his problem at hand. The front of his sleep shorts: strained, and Hongbin, realizing quickly what was wrong. He touched low on Taekwoon’s stomach, fingertips slipping under the elastic of his waistband.

'What do you want?’ Taekwoon asked quietly, unsure where he should put his hands.

'For you to kiss me.’

Choking on his own heart, 'Where?’

Hongbin pressed trembling fingers to the inside of his own thigh. 'Here.’

Taekwoon wasn’t nearly as steady as he’d liked to be; sinking low between Hongbin’s legs. His hands shook as he grabbed either of Hongbin’s thighs, spread them apart; and with his face tucked into the inside of Hongbin’s thigh, right where his fingers had been, Taekwoon kissed him through the fabric of his sweatpants. And as he nuzzled his face there, Hongbin took Taekwoon’s hand and placed it high up on his hip; he urged Taekwoon’s fingers to curl into his waistband, to pull his pants down.

'Take them off,’ he breathed lightly.

So Taekwoon did, whole body melted into a puddle; and he was knocked senseless by the sight of Hongbin’s thighs: bare, pale, smooth as the rest of him. There was a soft tremor under Hongbin’s skin, knees quivering gently; Taekwoon kissed his inner thigh again.

'Here,’ Hongbin said, and his finger was pressed even closer between his legs, where his thigh met his body and the hem of his underwear had ridden up. Feeble roll of his hips as Taekwoon kissed him there, the bridge of his nose buried against his hipbone.

'Here,’ hitch of his breath, he was whining; fingers trailing over the front of his underwear. Taekwoon followed Hongbin’s hand wherever it went, mouthed at the places he asked him to touch; and he was hard in his clothes, cock straining under Taekwoon’s lips.

Hongbin lifted his hips as Taekwoon’s fingers curled into his underwear, allowed them to be taken off, discarded completely; and lying there under dull light, he was more beautiful than Taekwoon could have imagined. He took Hongbin’s cock into his hand, blood pounding deep in his ears, he barely heard when Hongbin muttered another, 'Here,’ but saw where his fingers had traveled.

All of the blood in Taekwoon’s head rushed into his feet; his mouth: dry, breathless and unable to think. Hongbin had placed his finger over his rim. Taekwoon didn’t have enough spit to swallow, but tried to swallow anyway, and looking up into Hongbin’s face, Taekwoon found his cheeks flushed a bright red. He was chewing his thumb nail again, eyes wide and nervous.

Taekwoon kissed his mouth, then positioned himself low between Hongbin’s legs. He told him to hook his knees over his shoulders, and with his hands holding Hongbin’s hips up, he carefully pushed his tongue inside him. Hongbin’s reaction was immediate: legs vibrating against the sides of Taekwoon’s face, fingers laced through the back of his hair; he canted his hips, allowed Taekwoon more room to move, and with the flat of his tongue Taekwoon licked over Hongbin’s rim; the muscles in his stomach flexed painfully.

Tongue moving languidly, Taekwoon peeked up through his hair, saw Hongbin propped up on his elbow, eyes shut and his head tilted back. His chest hollowed with each deep breath he released; back subtly arched and all his ribs outlined in sharp lines. Taekwoon nuzzled his face closer, bridge of his nose pressed tightly to Hongbin’s perineum; and licking boldly, harder now, he gripped the base of Hongbin’s cock, felt all trembles coursing through him.

Whispered curses and eyes screwed shut, Hongbin muttered Taekwoon’s name once, twice; he pulled at the back of his hair and ground his hips against his face. His skin was flushed a faint red as if his insides were burning; and as Taekwoon slowly worked his hand up Hongbin’s cock, thumb rubbing circles over the tip, Hongbin let out a deep, breathless moan.

’ _Taekwoon_ —’ a warning— ’ _please_ ,’ but Taekwoon didn’t know what was being asked of him. So he did the only thing he could think of and soaked Hongbin with his spit, as much as he could spare, and dripping wet between his legs, he pushed one finger into him.

Rough jolt of his hips, Hongbin’s hand tightened in Taekwoon’s hair, and he was muttering under his breath, words Taekwoon couldn’t hear because Hongbin’s thighs were pressed hard over his ears; all he could hear was the rush of his own blood, the small sounds falling from his own mouth.

Hongbin came with a jerk, both startling and overwhelming. He came on Taekwoon’s fingers, on his own stomach, come dripping onto his thighs; and face buried into the crook of his elbow.

'I’m sorry,’ he groaned miserably, hips still rolling forward as he rode out whatever was left of his orgasm. Taekwoon understood the shame he felt—he’d come a million times too soon to recount—but wouldn’t accept it; and cradling the back of Hongbin’s head, Taekwoon kissed him deeply with his tongue in his mouth.

'It’s been a long time,’ Hongbin whined, tried to hide again, but Taekwoon beat him to it. He kissed Hongbin’s jaw, his neck. He told him it was alright, it’d been a while for him too.

Gently, touching the deep pink of Hongbin’s cheeks, Taekwoon said, 'Will you take a shower with me? Let me clean you up.’

Hongbin said he would, a faint smile lifting the corners of his mouth. He let Taekwoon take him by the hand, lead him from couch to hallway and hallway to bathroom where the lights burned snow white, buzzing in silence like far away bees. Deep, sleepless marks below his eyes standing stark under such light; Hongbin looked exhausted, boneless. He let Taekwoon take his shirt off, hair ruffled in the back; and as he stood there with an arm draped over his stomach and a hand on the back of his neck, Taekwoon saw he was made up of hard muscle, sharply defined. All of him: much tougher than Taekwoon had imagined, and yet still small beneath Taekwoon’s hands, trembling like a frightened bird.

He noticed too: the bruises on Hongbin’s side, a mark along his collarbone much like the one fading from his neck. White hot hatred surged up from his stomach and into his mouth; Taekwoon swallowed it down, but it wasn’t easy.

And once in the shower, he kept Hongbin under the water, rinsed his hair, his body; warily touched the bruises with his fingertips. He kissed them softly, worked his mouth over every sore spot across Hongbin’s chest, and hugged his bare body to his face. Cascade of water over his own cold skin and gooseflesh all over him; Taekwoon could feel the irregular beat of Hongbin’s heart against his mouth.

05  _We’re leaving._  Simple words spoken through a mouthful of regret and lips that barely moved.  _We’re leaving._  It lingered in the back of Taekwoon’s head like an omnipresent finger prodding the inside of his brain, and he could think of little else than the way Wonsik had looked when he’d said these words.

_‘I have to get him out of here.’_  He’d been clutching the hem of his own shirt, not quite looking Taekwoon in the eye as if ashamed of what Taekwoon might find reflected back at him. He hadn’t cried, but he’d been very near; a tone so similar to a plea Taekwoon had been afraid Wonsik had been begging, but Wonsik wasn’t one to beg; and perhaps this was why he’d never stopped staring at his feet when he’d asked Taekwoon to come along. This too was stuck in Taekwoon’s memory: how Wonsik’s face first fell, eyes like embers searing hot as if trying to find the real reason why Taekwoon would turn him down. He’d tried to shake it off, pretend it didn’t matter—‘ _I’ve found someone,_ ’ Taekwoon had told him—, trying so desperately to feign happiness for him. But the smile Wonsik forced had been as transparent as glass in a window: smudged around the edges, but completely see-through.

_‘Will you see us off at least? The day after tomorrow.’_

This had all happened two days ago. The starship they’d take would leave in another five hours; and Taekwoon, sitting idle in the middle of his living room, every light turned out and his Novel Board neglected on the coffee table, stared blankly at the dark wall in front of him. He’d seen it coming, but hadn’t expected it so soon. All week Wonsik had been missing, ignoring Taekwoon’s few texts and even fewer calls; weekend nights left alone in an empty apartment when he’d grown so used to Jaehwan’s voice in the hallway, to Wonsik on the sofa with a beer in his hand. He’d felt it coming, but hadn’t really believed it.

-

Hongbin had long since stopped knocking, but he lingered in the doorway—a habit Taekwoon didn’t think he’d ever break—as if frightened of coming in on his own, and would stand with the door open, light seeping in—an aura of white illuminance washed over him like a halo—as if wanting to make sure Taekwoon knew of his arrival. He did this now, and the light, too bright for Taekwoon’s eyes, made him squint, heightened the ache in his temple that had been threatening him all evening.

He gently said, 'Close the door please.’

The radio was on, but the music was soft; sad synthetics that only worsened the mood. Hongbin, walking carefully like he was searching for a weak spot in the floor, afraid of falling through, sat quietly at the end of the couch farthest from Taekwoon’s side.

Gently, 'Bin-ah.’ He reached a hand over, said, 'Come here,’ and lifted his arm for Hongbin to curl under, face rested perfectly in the nook of Taekwoon’s shoulder.

'Are you okay?’ Hongbin whispered.

'I have to leave soon,’ was the only answer Taekwoon would give.

'Do you want me to leave?’

And sternly, as if offended, Taekwoon glowered. 'No.’ Then, softer: 'I’m just letting you know.’

They sat a moment longer in distilled silence; the track changed but the mood stayed the same. Taekwoon held Hongbin close and buried his face into the top of his hair.

Hongbin asked, 'Have you talked to them about it?’ He was playing with the drawstrings on Taekwoon’s jacket, curling them around the tips of his fingers, uncurling. He pulled lightly at one, then the other. 'Have they changed their minds?’

Taekwoon had told Hongbin nothing of Wonsik’s offer to join them; had feigned ignorance when Hongbin, upset, had asked why they wouldn’t ask Taekwoon to leave with them. He’d known too well how hard Hongbin would push him to go, reminding him incessantly of all the city’s ruins, and the black hole of a future that anyone had here. He’d never once think that Taekwoon stayed behind because he wanted to, but would rather accuse him of feeling inclined to. It wasn’t an argument Taekwoon wanted to have, nor did he want guilt clawing its way into Hongbin’s heart which would surely break under the weight.

So: Taekwoon, not missing a beat, shook his head. He said, 'They aren’t going to change their minds. Don’t worry about it.’

'I don’t think that’s really fair.’

'It’s alright.’ He hooked a finger under Hongbin’s chin, tipped his face up; and only brightened by the glare of the radio—dim, white light—he could just make out the worry lines across Hongbin’s forehead. 'I’m happy here.’

'You don’t  _look_  happy.’

'Well—’ he kissed the spot between Hongbin’s eyebrows, left his mouth there until the worry lines smoothed out. 'I am now.’

-

He took a cab to the river where the ship would be leaving, and as colored lights blurred past dirty windows, Taekwoon felt the first pangs of unease. It’d been so long since he’d last been in a vehicle that he couldn’t remember when exactly it’d been; and motion sickness dizzying in its arrival left his head spinning, mouth thick with spit. He hung his head low between knees that quivered, and for no particular reason thought of his first fight at Raceway. His hair had been longer then, grown down the nape of his neck and hanging low over his forehead. He could remember very little from the actual fight, but remembered he’d gotten a few good punches in before the other boy (who’d been wearing orange sneakers so outlandishly colored they would pop into his memory from time to time, hazy and faraway) dug a bony knuckle into the underside of Taekwoon’s chin. He’d nearly bitten his tongue in half; jaw clenched and ears popping. He could remember hitting the floor as if suddenly his feet had disappeared, free falling and unable to gain enough sense to catch himself. But it wasn’t the fight that he thought of now, but rather the ache that had followed: impossible to move out of bed, his bones had hurt as if they’d all been broken at once; right eye swelled shut (it’d been three weeks before he could see from it properly again) and all the blood vessels broken, the white of his eye replaced with murky reds. The pain in his head had been constant, someone drilling from his vertebrae and up through the back of his skull; it’d been a feat to take a shower. Even the water had made him ache. And now as he sat with his head in his hands and tired tears falling from tired eyes, he felt the same throbbing pain all over him; discomfort like torment, beating down on him.

It was the feeling of something falling—his first fight; his best friends—right out of his hand, and no matter how hard he scrambled for it, it fell anyway.

-

They posed like soldiers silhouetted in doom. Their shoulders squared and the tails of their shirts beating wildly in the artificial wind of the starship’s motor. The rainbow lights of the bridge reflecting on waters much cleaner than that of the canals, the sound of traffic—more sparse this far out of the city limits—was a gentle hum like music from hidden speakers: added sound that covered the lonesomeness of the river; of everything. There was a growing discomfort lodged deeply in Taekwoon’s stomach, and as he crossed the bridge like a threshold, hands far in his pockets, he was glad he hadn’t ate since the morning. He’d have been sick by now had there been anything to choke up.

As Taekwoon came nearer, Jaehwan—who had been watching him intently—turned so suddenly away that Taekwoon thought he’d make a run for it. But he stayed where he stood, arms crossed tightly over his chest; the fabric of his shirt stretched hard over his back. It was within an instant that he crumbled forward: shoulders rounded and his back slumped in a harsh arch; his head came down between his shoulders, and he stood there as if all the weight of the universe had suddenly collapsed on him.

'Is he alright?’ Taekwoon asked softly.

Wonsik nodded, but wouldn’t speak.

'And you?’

Another nod.

'Wonsik.’

He’d been staring at a spot beside Taekwoon’s left foot, eyes unwavering and his lips parted; it was a strange look to see on Wonsik’s face, as if all emotions had been ejected. But as he looked up, Taekwoon saw: water streaks on his face and a faint tremble in his lower lip.

'I don’t think we’ll ever come back here,’ he said quietly.

'Good.’

'You sure?” He looked away before his face could give away what he was feeling; he sighed. 'It’s good for him. That’s what matters.’ And running the back of his arm under his nose, sniffing hard, he asked, 'Have you changed your mind?’

Taekwoon shook his head; a lump had formed in his throat, one he couldn’t swallow down. Standing with words caught in the web of his vocal chords, he wondered if he’d be able to say goodbye at all. The sight of the starship was already too difficult: brazen lights like neon signs all along the bottom of the ship. He knew once it left, he’d be able to watch these lights for miles until they were only a soft twinkle like stars that no longer burned in their night sky.

'What is it?’ Wonsik jeered lightly. 'Are you in love or something?’

'I don’t know,’ Taekwoon said. 'I could be.’

'He’s gotta be pretty special, huh?’ sucking air through his teeth. 'I never thought there would be anything in the world that’d keep you here.’

Taekwoon wasn’t sure what he should say, nothing seemed appropriate, and so said nothing. He looked at Jaehwan who wouldn’t look at him, and feeling the unease grow, he asked, 'Is he angry with me?’

'No. He’s just sad.’ Wonsik had pulled a cigarette from his pocket, but instead of lighting it was staring hard at the tip as if willing it to ignite on its own. 'You should—’ he motioned to Jaehwan. 'The pilot’s waiting.’

It was hard: forcing himself from Wonsik’s side, but Taekwoon wasn’t the one who had to make the decision. Wonsik moved away for him, moved toward the ship with a suitcase in either hand, and it was as he threw the bags into the back carrier that Taekwoon, timidly and half reeling, touched Jaehwan’s shoulder. And it felt like static electricity coursing from Jaehwan’s body and into his own; this one small touch and the added sound of flowing water, the ship’s motors rising in speed as Wonsik said something to the pilot; and in this moment there was an instant of hard realization. This could very well be the last time Taekwoon ever felt these bones within his reach.

Jaehwan jolted weakly; and it was like something snapped. He turned quickly, fell into Taekwoon’s arms like his were the only hands that could hold him. They stayed this way for a long time: Jaehwan’s face buried in Taekwoon’s neck. The two of them lost in a single moment that seemed to stretch on across the river and the rainbow lights, stretched for eternity until it touched the sky; and even then: it kept going. He held Jaehwan until Wonsik came up beside him and pulled tenderly at Jaehwan’s hand. Silent way of telling him it was time to go.

'You’ll be alright?’ Jaehwan asked desperately.

And before Taekwoon could say anything, Wonsik laughed quietly, but genuinely. 'Sorry about bailing before Friday.’ He was walking backwards toward the ship, cigarette now lit and his hair windblown over his eyes. He was smiling. 'I wanted to stay for the fight, you know, kick your ass one last time, but—’ Taekwoon snorted— 'next time, hyung.’

Taekwoon would have said something had there been words in his head, but standing with his hands in his pockets and his hair in his face, he could do nothing but watch the two of them—hands clasped tightly together—climb into their ship. The whir of the motors drowned out all sadness Taekwoon could feel. And there was no big crescendo of sound, of emotion falling into him, only the simple feeling of being. He imagined it was how men must feel when poured into a ship and sent into space; how the first person to walk on the moon had felt staring back at Earth: so infinitesimal, and painfully human.

He thought of Hongbin, and wondered if it wasn’t only Hongbin who needed saving, but himself as well.

-

It’d been four days since Wonsik had left, two since the last time Taekwoon felt Hongbin’s hands in his hair, and though he was trying—and failing—to keep his mind occupied, and himself out of the dreary dark of his apartment, Taekwoon found little comfort outside of his bed. He’d woken one morning that week to the press of Hongbin’s bare, cold legs against his own; fluttering touch of fingers along his neck, and the knowledge that it was early—the sun had yet to rise—and the cool dark of the morning’s hours would be theirs alone. He’d kissed Hongbin’s throat and took his clothes off one piece at a time; stretching these small hours out into oblivion where Hongbin would never have to leave again, and Taekwoon could sleep soundly with Hongbin in his arms the whole night through. He hadn’t mentioned the new bruise on Hongbin’s thigh, or the flash of pain across his face when Taekwoon had kissed it—lightly; but the anger he’d felt blossom in his chest like a flower, curled tightly about his heart, still weighed painfully inside him days later. And as he lay in bed now with his knees pulled to his body and his face tucked deeply into the pillows, trying desperately to find the last remaining traces of Hongbin’s cologne, his shampoo, and finding nothing, Taekwoon slipped a hand into the front of his sleep shorts, and thought of how soft Hongbin’s skin had been. His body had trembled before Taekwoon ever touched him; legs spread and his head thrown back, he’d arched up beneath Taekwoon’s hands like he’d never been touched before, sighed Taekwoon’s name as shivers coursed under his skin. And when it was all over, the sheets a wet mess beneath their tangled limbs, Hongbin had kissed Taekwoon’s mouth gently, had slowly pushed his tongue past Taekwoon’s teeth; and melting forward with his body clinging tightly to Taekwoon’s own, Hongbin had told him, ‘You make me so happy, hyung.’

This is what Taekwoon thought about as his hand enclosed around himself. Weak roll of his hips and his face hidden in the crook of his elbow. He screwed his eyes tightly shut ‘til fireworks blurred behind them; and as he came with Hongbin’s name in his mouth and the memory of his body, small but steady, beneath his own, Taekwoon was pained by the ache in his heart that only grew heavier.

Lying in the dark, in an apartment which felt abandoned, Taekwoon looked at all the things surrounding him: the bureau his mother had given him when he first moved out; a 20th century radio Wonsik had found in a landfill (and promptly forced Jaehwan and Taekwoon to help him rebuild it); the small stack of paperback books he’d salvaged from babyhood—they’d been in his father’s attic, moth eaten and falling apart; he had taped most of them back together, but still they lay warped and water damaged, hardly looking like books at all—and he realized: nothing really mattered anymore. His apartment felt haunted by ghosts of a future lost, one he’d dreamed of since childhood. Never had he thought he’d be lying motionless in a bed too wide for only one body, dreaming of the boy next door who he’d kill for. He touched his forehead and let his eyes flutter shut; grief fell over him like soot.

-

He’d gone to Arcadia with the hope of shedding light on the darker parts of his mind, but was horribly disquieted by the sight of Retrograde—hammering through its opponents—and the damage it caused to its surroundings: scarred linoleum where its serrated blades had cut through the flooring, bits of broken robots thrown like limbs across the ground; and Sanghyuk, as poised as he’d ever been, sneering angrily at the boy across from him: one with a remote controller considerably smaller than Sanghyuk’s own.

He lasted an hour and drank too many beers, then stumbled home with an ache in his right temple. The air was hot, but not stifling, like a blanket fresh from the dryer; and Taekwoon, without a jacket, allowed the comfort of this warmth to wrap itself around him, leaving gooseflesh on his arms. But the stairwell was cold, and the exit sign threw its familiar green glare all over the tiled floors; he stood there a moment, patting his pockets for the lighter he was sure he’d grabbed from the bar top. And finally—after quiet rage had bubbled up his throat—his fingers brushed the cold metal of his zippo.

Up the stairs: one at a time, head hung low and a cloud of smoke filtering heavily from his mouth; Taekwoon leaned his forehead, hot and sweaty, to the cold front of his apartment door. It had been a quarter to midnight when he’d left Arcadia, but it felt so much later; his eyes, exhausted, rolled shut as he tried to focus on the keypad mounted above the doorknob. Wrong Input Code, the monitor glared at him. So he tried again. Wrong Input Code—it wouldn’t allow him to try a third time. If cops still existed, they’d have been there by now.

He collapsed on the top step of the stairwell, glaring hard at the glitched monitor that was no longer its usual clear color, but had turned a bright blue as if it was sad Taekwoon couldn’t access his own apartment. After a while it faded back to white, but by then: Taekwoon had busied himself with a new cigarette. He had just gotten the end lit, a small swell of flame engulfing the tip of his cigarette and turning the once white paper a burnt brown, when he was suddenly aware of raised voices.

In silence, not daring to breathe, Taekwoon listened; and here: the low tones of Hongbin’s murmurs so incredibly passive Taekwoon’s mouth began to quiver. In the instance it took him to rise to his feet and stumble toward Hongbin’s apartment door, Taekwoon thought of how tough Hongbin could be. Austerity shining brightly in his large eyes whenever presented with something he didn’t want—a movie he’d seen a hundred times, music that hurt his ears; how he’d glower if Taekwoon brought him coffee instead of tea—such subtle pieces of a bigger picture that never burned out, gleaming with radiance and warmth and something wholly Hongbin; and to hear his voice now: weak in ways that Hongbin wasn’t, made Taekwoon’s bones ache.

He beat the heel of his palm against the door, felt tingles spike into his fingertips; and it was only a second before the door opened, but it lasted a lifetime. His face was hot with anger, with blood; ears pounding with the beat of his pulse, and he: terrified of what he was going to do. This fear quickly dwindled as soon as the door opened—just a sliver—and  _he_ was standing there, a look so utterly hateful across his shadowed face. A fog of murky water eroded Taekwoon’s sight. Eyes like open windows seeing nothing but blackened walls. He could remember throwing himself against the door, throwing himself against  _him_ ; then: darkness.

A sharp pain in his hand like blood vessels broken, veins knotted together beneath skin pulled tight. He heard something snap like splintered wood, and the head splitting pain of a fist connecting with his jaw. There was a flood of blood in his mouth, rushing over his lower lip and to his throat; wet hot on the collar of his shirt. Hongbin was shouting perilously close to Taekwoon’s ear, and he thought for a moment his head would explode, that he’d drown in the liquid iron filling his mouth; that it’d all been for nothing. But somewhere, far off and untouchable, there was light pooling through his own inane darkness; and the trembling, cold touch of Hongbin’s hands cradling his face.

Hongbin was breathless, unable to stop from shouting, ‘Are you okay? Hyung, are you  _okay_ —’ He rocked on his knees, arms wrapped tightly about Taekwoon’s head; the beat of his heart was unsettling, it was as if it was trying to pound its way out of his chest.

Vision wavering; Taekwoon could only see the smallest parts of the damage: blood on white tile, and on his knuckles: coagulated blood turned black. The boy was on the floor with his face painted red, choking on whatever was in his mouth—blood, probably; maybe his own teeth.

'I think you broke his collarbone,’ Hongbin said quietly. 'I heard something break. I think it was his collarbone—’ and Taekwoon was only now aware of the quiver in Hongbin’s words.

He pulled his head from Hongbin’s chest, blinked slowly. He whispered, 'I’m sorry.’

Hongbin, shaking his head hard, asked him: 'What for?’ He rose steadily with a hand in his own hair, and said, 'I’ll get my things.’

The boy didn’t stop coughing, groaned inwardly as he rolled on his side, but he never rose either; and it was startling how guilt never came, though Taekwoon had thought it would. And when Hongbin returned with a bag in his left hand, his pink track jacket in his right; Taekwoon realized: the guilt would never come, because there was nothing to feel bad about.

-

The motel they rented for the night had holographic walls set to a theme of the Milky Way, and as constellations formed lazily across stone black walls, Taekwoon pulled listlessly at his busted bottom lip. Dried blood flaked from beneath his fingernails, his shirt was discarded somewhere in the bathroom. It’d been too messy to keep on for long.

Hongbin was sitting on his hands as if afraid of where they might wander, and staring blankly at the white carpet, he shuffled bare toes across the floor. He’d been waiting in silence so hollow it rang shrill in his ears; he looked to Taekwoon from time to time with tenderness faint in his large, curious eyes.

'What are we gonna do?’ he asked.

Taekwoon was sharply pulled from a daydream like a black hole—ceaseless, empty; full of nothingness so astounding he’d forgotten he knew how to form thoughts at all. He looked to Hongbin, and saw he was shivering.

'Are you cold?’ Taekwoon said weakly. 'Do you want your jacket?’ It was clutched in Taekwoon’s left hand, had been there since they’d arrived. And as Hongbin shook his head, bowed low between sharp shoulders, Taekwoon crossed what small distance had been between them, and lowered himself to the floor. He sat at Hongbin’s feet with his head rested in his lap; eyes shut against the weight of Hongbin’s hands carding through the back of his hair. It was a gentle touch of tenderness; Hongbin: cradling Taekwoon close.

Suddenly, as if afraid if he stopped to breathe he’d never get the words out of his mouth, Hongbin said, 'I love you.’ He pulled Taekwoon’s head from his lap, and said again, 'Hyung, I love you.’

Taekwoon started to shake. Desperately he wrapped his arms around Hongbin’s middle, hugged his stomach to his face. He whispered, 'Run away with me.’

Hongbin pushed him away again, but not unkindly. He stared hard into his face, forever searching, forever afraid. He pushed Taekwoon until he was forced to sit on his haunches with his head tipped back and the pain of tears behind closed eyes. He pushed, and kept pushing, until he was able to fall into Taekwoon’s lap with his arms around his neck and his mouth pressed to Taekwoon’s own. He kissed as if it was the only way to survive: open mouthed, breathing hard; he bit at Taekwoon’s broken lip, and never seemed to notice the blood on his tongue.

Hongbin pressed their bodies close, heartbeats thrumming unsteadily out of sync. He held Taekwoon’s face between cold hands, and breathed into his mouth a single word, so simple, so breathtaking. 'Okay.’

Taekwoon’s heart swelled; his eyes erupted in silent tears, and he: unable to control the sob that fell out of his mouth and into Hongbin’s own. He held Hongbin like a man lost at sea, hopelessly clutching for firm ground, but failing, falling, windswept and drowning beneath a wave of emotion so raw he was certain it’d kill him.

'Do you love me?’ Hongbin asked. He was whining, falling to pieces between Taekwoon’s heavy hands.

And Taekwoon, staring hard into Hongbin’s own frightened eyes, told him: 'Since the day I met you.’


End file.
